


Not Right

by crazylittleelf



Category: Fringe
Genre: Multi, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-15
Updated: 2009-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazylittleelf/pseuds/crazylittleelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right is a distant memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Right

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle VIII prompt: silence, identity.

If she lets herself relax, lets the warm sun paint her face, lets everything slide away, she can't tell who she is anymore. If she lays still on the bed, arms flung out, naked against the sheets that have warmed to her body temperature and melted away from her awareness, he forgets who's body he inhabits. If he listens, strains with her senses, he can just hear the faint sound of breathing from across the room, feel the weight of his eyes on her body, feel the coil of desire that threads them together.

The bed dips beside her, rolls her slightly to the side and his hands smooth over her hips, up her sides and she wants to whisper his name but he stops her, gently. Her voice is jarring; he can't quite get the tone right but she doesn't mind that he tries sometimes. His lips press against hers, rougher than she likes, softer than he likes and it's never just right, hasn't been right for so long none of them remember what right was. He bites his lips with her teeth, sucks his tongue into her mouth and he presses harder, rougher. She tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, scratching paths down his back. He spreads her legs, lifts her hips in invitation.

She's slick, slick and he pushes the strangeness of the sensation aside. He's getting used to it and the way she mewls when he enters her is almost enough to make up for it. He remembers what it feels like to slide into her and make her mewl and moan and she remembers, too, and it's almost enough to make up for it. He presses forward, so deep and she's writhing and he's trying to buck her hips, ingrained motion that doesn't care whose body he's in. He presses their foreheads together, straining for more, tearing at that gossamer wall between them, trying to push into her so deeply that there's only one of them.


End file.
